Tom Marcello, manager of vibraphone wizard Joe Locke, checked in with BWJAZZANDBLUES this weekend regarding a previous post about South Florida jazz fave John "Spider" Martin. Initially, Marcello wrote, "In all honesty, Spider wasn't much of a tenor player, but he was a virtuoso self promoter. Even from the grave!" He then enclosed a flier that Locke sent along to him regarding a Sept. 6 tribute to Spider at the Ontario House in Niagara Falls, featuring B3 Hammond monster Joey DeFrancesco. (Apparently, Spider's brother, Kenny, had sent the flier to Locke.)
That may be so, I countered, but on the recording I was writing about, Live From the Breakers of Fort Lauderdale Rooftop, Spider played with plenty of heart and feeling, and I still think the disc holds up as a great snapshot of the mid-'80s jazz scene here in South Florida. (Dr. Lonnie Smith and Ignacio Berroa are also on it, and Blue Note record store owner Bob Perry is the emcee.) It's also a fond rememberance of the troubled saxophonist who tragically passed away in 2000 after battling demons and addictions for decades.
Here's Marcello's affectionate reminiscence of palling around with Spider in upstate New York:
"Spider and I hung out a lot during the '70s after he was released from Attica. I spent many a good night listening to him play and going out to the after-hours clubs. It was he who introduced me to Dizzy and Max [Roach]. Fond memories!
"I meant not to dis Spider's playing so much, but the fact is if he put as much effort into his horn as he did in his hustles, he would have been greater.
"Spider could always hustle a gig. It wasn't too many months after he was released from jail that he got a concert with the Rochester Philharmonic! He also gave gigs to many of the young guys in Rochester (who needed the experience) like Joe, Barry Kiener, Greg Skaff and many others. In fact, Joe still uses one of his sayings when he ends a set: "Stick with your party and don't bother nobody." You have to say it with the right accent on the vowels!
"He burned his bridges here in a number of ways (small rip-offs and passing bad checks; that's what landed him in jail) and he split to South Florida. My first wife was from Miami, and in January of '86 we were down there visiting and I saw an ad that he was at the Gusman doing a MLK tribute concert with Joe, Dizzy, Mongo [Santamaria] and Nestor Torres. I stopped by and was happy that he had become one of the main players there. That's the last time I saw him.
"So, a lot of fond memories of Spider Martin for me!"
In addition to managing Joe Locke, Marcello is also a helluva photographer. Check out his amazing jazz snaps at http://www.flickr.com/photos/11447043@N00/. He truly captures the Rochester and New York loft scenes of the '70s; look for some killer shots of Sam Rivers holding court at Studio RivBea.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Matt "Guitar" Murphy is still one bad mother
I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I trekked up to The Back Room last night to see Matt "Guitar" Murphy. The Mississippi-born guitarist, who made his name alongside blues elite such as Memphis Slim and Sonny Boy Williamson II and gained mainstream fame with The Blues Brothers movies, is either 78 or 80 years old (depending on what source you cite) and had suffered a stroke a few years back that severely affected his right side. As it turned out, there was no need for concern, as Murphy delivered the goods and then some.
But that wasn't evident from the get-go. First off, Murphy and his wife, who were driving up from Kendall, were having trouble finding the venue, which is on a long, dark stretch of Dixie Highway in Boca. Although he didn't arrive till 11 for a 9:30 show, the wait was more than tolerable thanks to the extremely entertaining and talented Darrell Raines and his excellent band, including the dynamic harp blowing of Pix Ensign, the rollicking keyboards of Jerry Mascaro and the terrific rhythm team of bassist George Caldwell and drummer Dr. Bob Sellani. A somewhat limited vocalist who nonetheless sells each song with plenty of feeling, Raines has great charisma and a fiery but not flamboyant guitar style that shows his deep respect for and knowledge of the idiom. His library of licks recalled everyone from Freddie King to Elmore James to Jimi Hendrix (but not in that derivative fashion that makes so many Hendrix-inspired guitarists so damn tiresome), and he reminded me of similarly powerful but restrained guitarslingers such as Lurrie Bell.
When Murphy arrived and began making his way to the stage, the image was shocking. If your enduring image of him is the vital, musclebound dude from The Blues Brothers, you couldn't help but be taken aback by his deliberate gait and the loose skin that hangs from once-taut biceps. Still, once he gingerly stepped on stage, sat down and strapped on his blond Telecaster (the same one, Jim Nestor tells me, that graces the cover of Murphy's Down South album), a familiar smile creased his broad face and he was once again Matt "Guitar" Murphy.
The band launched into "Matt's Guitar Boogie," Murphy's signature tune, and his jazzy chordings and sweet intonation, which calls up Memphis like no other sound, were in fine form. Even without the use of the digits on his right hand — he used just his right thumb, and believe me, the fingers on his left hand were as speedy and precise as ever — Murphy masterfully evokes the city where he found fame early on; his sound will be instantly recognizable to anyone who spent a great deal of time with The Blues Brothers' Briefcase Full of Blues album, as I did as a kid.
Murphy's and Raines' contrasting styles worked beautifully in tandem, as the pair traded leads and Murphy also displayed expert chops as a rhythm player. Even if you swore you'd never sit through another version of "Sweet Home Chicago" again, the version these guys cooked up was a real treat, full of improvisational back-and-forth as the two guitarists laid into the groove and jammed on a lengthy instrumental intro.
For the second set, Nouveaux Honkies guitarist Tim O'Donnell joined the proceedings, and like Raines, showed the utmost deference to Murphy as he was obviously thrilled to be sharing the stage with him. Dressed in a sharp suit and tie, O'Donnell played slide and did some fleet-fingered soloing on his hollow-body jazz box, as well as singing a couple of numbers alongside Raines and Murphy, who obviously got a kick out of him and shared more than a couple of laughs that seemed to suggest, "How does this white boy know all this shit?" Best of all was when O'Donnell inquired if Murphy remembered "Mother Earth," the great existential blues by Memphis Slim. "Oh, yeah," Murphy replied, as they launched into the doomy, familiar riff, with O'Donnell powerfully vocalizing and Murphy time-tripping back to another era as they concluded the set on a high note before Murphy hit the highway back to South Miami.
Certainly, Murphy is no museum piece. This show was just flat-out fun, and it seemed like everyone on stage was just delighted to be there. That goes for everyone off-stage, as well.
But that wasn't evident from the get-go. First off, Murphy and his wife, who were driving up from Kendall, were having trouble finding the venue, which is on a long, dark stretch of Dixie Highway in Boca. Although he didn't arrive till 11 for a 9:30 show, the wait was more than tolerable thanks to the extremely entertaining and talented Darrell Raines and his excellent band, including the dynamic harp blowing of Pix Ensign, the rollicking keyboards of Jerry Mascaro and the terrific rhythm team of bassist George Caldwell and drummer Dr. Bob Sellani. A somewhat limited vocalist who nonetheless sells each song with plenty of feeling, Raines has great charisma and a fiery but not flamboyant guitar style that shows his deep respect for and knowledge of the idiom. His library of licks recalled everyone from Freddie King to Elmore James to Jimi Hendrix (but not in that derivative fashion that makes so many Hendrix-inspired guitarists so damn tiresome), and he reminded me of similarly powerful but restrained guitarslingers such as Lurrie Bell.
When Murphy arrived and began making his way to the stage, the image was shocking. If your enduring image of him is the vital, musclebound dude from The Blues Brothers, you couldn't help but be taken aback by his deliberate gait and the loose skin that hangs from once-taut biceps. Still, once he gingerly stepped on stage, sat down and strapped on his blond Telecaster (the same one, Jim Nestor tells me, that graces the cover of Murphy's Down South album), a familiar smile creased his broad face and he was once again Matt "Guitar" Murphy.
The band launched into "Matt's Guitar Boogie," Murphy's signature tune, and his jazzy chordings and sweet intonation, which calls up Memphis like no other sound, were in fine form. Even without the use of the digits on his right hand — he used just his right thumb, and believe me, the fingers on his left hand were as speedy and precise as ever — Murphy masterfully evokes the city where he found fame early on; his sound will be instantly recognizable to anyone who spent a great deal of time with The Blues Brothers' Briefcase Full of Blues album, as I did as a kid.
Murphy's and Raines' contrasting styles worked beautifully in tandem, as the pair traded leads and Murphy also displayed expert chops as a rhythm player. Even if you swore you'd never sit through another version of "Sweet Home Chicago" again, the version these guys cooked up was a real treat, full of improvisational back-and-forth as the two guitarists laid into the groove and jammed on a lengthy instrumental intro.
For the second set, Nouveaux Honkies guitarist Tim O'Donnell joined the proceedings, and like Raines, showed the utmost deference to Murphy as he was obviously thrilled to be sharing the stage with him. Dressed in a sharp suit and tie, O'Donnell played slide and did some fleet-fingered soloing on his hollow-body jazz box, as well as singing a couple of numbers alongside Raines and Murphy, who obviously got a kick out of him and shared more than a couple of laughs that seemed to suggest, "How does this white boy know all this shit?" Best of all was when O'Donnell inquired if Murphy remembered "Mother Earth," the great existential blues by Memphis Slim. "Oh, yeah," Murphy replied, as they launched into the doomy, familiar riff, with O'Donnell powerfully vocalizing and Murphy time-tripping back to another era as they concluded the set on a high note before Murphy hit the highway back to South Miami.
Certainly, Murphy is no museum piece. This show was just flat-out fun, and it seemed like everyone on stage was just delighted to be there. That goes for everyone off-stage, as well.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Poppa, you can hear him
It's always a treat to catch up with Poppa E. Not only a talented interpreter of various blues styles and an excellent songwriter, the Miami-based bluesman also happens to be one helluva decent cat and a captivating storyteller. All of this will be in evidence Friday, when WLRN airs my conversation with Poppa on Ed Bell's South Florida Arts Beat sometime between 1 and 2 p.m.
The New York-born musician talks about his grandfather's and his uncles' influence on his life and music — his granddad fled Cairo, Ill., with the law on his trail after shooting some white men who harrassed his wife; his uncles ran a pool hall and record shop, respectively — as well as his return from Nam, life in Chicago and session work with Bill Withers on some of the pop soul singer's biggest hits ("Lean on Me," "Use Me"). Poppa also unpacked his guitar and loaded up his rack harmonica for a couple of tunes, one of which was an amazing, Delta-fied rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues," the other a pretty blues ballad called "Melonera's Blues."
You can find Poppa at Tobacco Road 10 p.m. Tuesday, Aug. 19 and 10 p.m. Aug. 31. Check out Poppae.com or Blackowlmusicmiami.com for more.
The New York-born musician talks about his grandfather's and his uncles' influence on his life and music — his granddad fled Cairo, Ill., with the law on his trail after shooting some white men who harrassed his wife; his uncles ran a pool hall and record shop, respectively — as well as his return from Nam, life in Chicago and session work with Bill Withers on some of the pop soul singer's biggest hits ("Lean on Me," "Use Me"). Poppa also unpacked his guitar and loaded up his rack harmonica for a couple of tunes, one of which was an amazing, Delta-fied rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues," the other a pretty blues ballad called "Melonera's Blues."
You can find Poppa at Tobacco Road 10 p.m. Tuesday, Aug. 19 and 10 p.m. Aug. 31. Check out Poppae.com or Blackowlmusicmiami.com for more.
Monday, August 11, 2008
It's a sad day, children: Remembering Isaac Hayes
It seems like Isaac Hayes was always part of the cultural landscape. I remember seeing him on TV when I was little and thinking he was the coolest human being on Earth. The fathoms deep voice, the bald head, the shades, the flamboyant outfits, the big, muscular frame and just an unshakable air of confidence and authority all contributed to a sense of preternatural cool, a way of being that was far beyond the scope of a Jewish kid from the burbs of Philly. Before I ever heard of Richard Roundtree or blaxploitation, I knew the signature wah-wah sound of Shaft and its obscenity-preventing injunction to "Shut your mouth!"
Of course, years later, I would become familiar not just with the badass John Shaft, but also Hayes' great body of work. He and songwriting partner David Porter wrote just about all the best Sam and Dave tunes, from "Soul Man" and "Hold On, I"m Comin'" to "When Something Is Wrong With My Baby," "You Don't Know Like I Know" and "I Thank You."
Hot Buttered Soul, the huge breakthrough album that put him on the map, contains two of my favorite Hayes moments, both covers that the iconic soul man made completely his own: Burt Bacharach and Hal David's "Walk On By" and Jimmy Webb's "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." The former adds layers of drama to the wistful song that was a hit for both Dionne Warwicke and Aretha Franklin, thanks to an acid-etched wah-wah guitar riff, a skyscraping horn and synth motif and, of course, Hayes' tear-stained delivery. On the latter, a hit for Glen Campbell, Hayes constructs a rambling, spoken narrative by way of introduction to the familiar tune, personalizing the song and making listeners feel as if he were sharing a very intimate moment ripped from his own back pages.
The Shaft soundtrack is something of a mixed bag, containing the amazingly constructed title theme, but also plenty of filler that sounds a bit dated. If you're in the mood for a little time-tripping on a Sunday morning, however, this double-LP will more than fill the bill.
To witness Hayes at his iconic peak, rent or own a copy of Wattstax, the documentary film of the August 1972 concert featuring incredible performances from Hayes, Rufus Thomas, The Dramatics, The Staple Singers and The Bar-Kays. One story has it that The Bar-Kays, who backed Hayes on Hot Buttered Soul, had planned to ride into the L.A. Coliseum on horse-drawn chariots, but the organizers were wary of their upstaging Hayes. They needn't have worried. The man known as Black Moses lived up to that sobriquet, his towering charisma, outrageous outfit (some kind of chain-mail shirt as I remember it) and trademark clean-shaven dome and shades riveting the attention of the packed arena.
Hayes further cemented his rep as the coolest cat on Earth when he took the role of Chef on South Park, showing that he wasn't afraid to make fun of himself and his rep as the smooth ladies man; who could forget Chef's singing about his "chocolate salty balls"? Unfortunately, his tenure with the show ended badly when Hayes objected to its eviscerating Scientologists, and the cartoon's creators killed off the beloved character.
Hayes died Sunday at age 65. If you happen to be up really late tonight (Monday), tune into AMC at 4:15 a.m. for Blues Brothers 2000, which features Hayes as part of the all-star Louisiana Gator Boys band with the likes of B.B. King, Lou Rawls, Koko Taylor, Gary U.S. Bonds and Stevie Winwood (the best part of the movie, and, along with the remarkable sequence that plays along with the credits — performances by Junior Wells, Lonnie Brooks and James Brown — pretty much the only reason to sit through it to the very end) jamming on "How Blue Can You Get" and "New Orleans."
Of course, years later, I would become familiar not just with the badass John Shaft, but also Hayes' great body of work. He and songwriting partner David Porter wrote just about all the best Sam and Dave tunes, from "Soul Man" and "Hold On, I"m Comin'" to "When Something Is Wrong With My Baby," "You Don't Know Like I Know" and "I Thank You."
Hot Buttered Soul, the huge breakthrough album that put him on the map, contains two of my favorite Hayes moments, both covers that the iconic soul man made completely his own: Burt Bacharach and Hal David's "Walk On By" and Jimmy Webb's "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." The former adds layers of drama to the wistful song that was a hit for both Dionne Warwicke and Aretha Franklin, thanks to an acid-etched wah-wah guitar riff, a skyscraping horn and synth motif and, of course, Hayes' tear-stained delivery. On the latter, a hit for Glen Campbell, Hayes constructs a rambling, spoken narrative by way of introduction to the familiar tune, personalizing the song and making listeners feel as if he were sharing a very intimate moment ripped from his own back pages.
The Shaft soundtrack is something of a mixed bag, containing the amazingly constructed title theme, but also plenty of filler that sounds a bit dated. If you're in the mood for a little time-tripping on a Sunday morning, however, this double-LP will more than fill the bill.
To witness Hayes at his iconic peak, rent or own a copy of Wattstax, the documentary film of the August 1972 concert featuring incredible performances from Hayes, Rufus Thomas, The Dramatics, The Staple Singers and The Bar-Kays. One story has it that The Bar-Kays, who backed Hayes on Hot Buttered Soul, had planned to ride into the L.A. Coliseum on horse-drawn chariots, but the organizers were wary of their upstaging Hayes. They needn't have worried. The man known as Black Moses lived up to that sobriquet, his towering charisma, outrageous outfit (some kind of chain-mail shirt as I remember it) and trademark clean-shaven dome and shades riveting the attention of the packed arena.
Hayes further cemented his rep as the coolest cat on Earth when he took the role of Chef on South Park, showing that he wasn't afraid to make fun of himself and his rep as the smooth ladies man; who could forget Chef's singing about his "chocolate salty balls"? Unfortunately, his tenure with the show ended badly when Hayes objected to its eviscerating Scientologists, and the cartoon's creators killed off the beloved character.
Hayes died Sunday at age 65. If you happen to be up really late tonight (Monday), tune into AMC at 4:15 a.m. for Blues Brothers 2000, which features Hayes as part of the all-star Louisiana Gator Boys band with the likes of B.B. King, Lou Rawls, Koko Taylor, Gary U.S. Bonds and Stevie Winwood (the best part of the movie, and, along with the remarkable sequence that plays along with the credits — performances by Junior Wells, Lonnie Brooks and James Brown — pretty much the only reason to sit through it to the very end) jamming on "How Blue Can You Get" and "New Orleans."
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Dispatches from the bunker: Wilson, Newman and Marsalis
It's been a crazy few days over here at Bob's jazz and blues bunker. After twiddling my thumbs (and chewing my nails) for a good portion of last week, all of the interviews I needed to conduct came through — all at the same time. But I'm not complaining: Since Friday, I've had amazing conversations with legendary composer-arranger-bandleader Gerald Wilson, sardonic songwriting genius Randy Newman and New Orleans jazz partriarch Ellis Marsalis. (The Marsalis interview will air sometime between 1 and 2 p.m. Friday on South Florida Arts Beat, WLRN-91.3 FM, in advance of his Aug. 14 show at the Coral Gables Congregational Church.)
• Talking to Wilson was a great treat. The bandleader, who turns 90 in September and was feted at a grand celebration at the Hollywood Bowl in late July, reminisced about his school years at Manassa High in Memphis and at Cass Tech High in Detroit in the 1930s. (Keep in mind, I was interviewing him for a column that will appear in the education issue of Jazziz, which will hit newsstands sometime in October.) Wilson skipped out on his senior year at Cass — a renowned music school that has turned out jazz giants such as Alice Coltrane and Ron Carter, not to mention South Florida's own Kenny Millions — to go on the road with Jimmie Lunceford's band in 1939, stepping into the huge shoes of trumpeter-arranger Sy Oliver, and he just kept going. A fixture on the L.A. jazz scene since the 1940s, Wilson more or less set the template for the contemporary big band sound, especially with his Pacific recordings of the 60s. And he's still setting the bar with suberb late-career recordings such as In My Time, New York, New Sound and Theme for Monterey. I'll include some excerpts from our conversation in a future post.
• I was a bit nervous about interviewing Randy Newman. Would he be as sharp-edged and misanthropic as his songs would lead you to believe? Turns out the cat could not have been nicer, conversing amiably and at length from his room at New York's Ritz-Carlton, where he was staying in advance of tonight's appearance on Letterman. We talked about his terrific new album, Harps and Angels — with its atypical "A Few Words in Defense of Our Country" specifically calling out the Bush administration and the Supreme Court — politics, the state of satire (we both agreed that the recent New Yorker cover kind of missed its mark tonewise), his roots in L.A. and New Orleans and, of course, some of his jazz heroes, as this piece, too, will appear in an upcoming issue of Jazziz (likely November's). His first recording of new material in nine years, Harps and Angels features Newman doing what he does best: revealing truths about human nature through incisive character songs. I'll post some choice portions of that interview, as well.
• Besides the ones that lived under his roof — you know, Wynton, Branford, Delfeayo and Jason — pianist Ellis Marsalis has mentored some of the leading jazz figures to emerge from the Crescent City. Harry Connick Jr., Terence Blanchard, Donald Harrison, Nicholas Payton and Irvin Mayfield all passed under his tutleage at the New Orleans Center of Creative Arts. The longtime educator and New Orleans jazz scene favorite recently released Open Letter to Thelonious, a superb tribute recording to Monk, on which he and his quartet explore the music of one of the genre's most distinctive composers. When I asked him for his initial reactions to Monk on first hearing his music, Marsalis gruffly replied: "I didn't like it." In fact, he related, it took him years to come to grips with Monk, but he does so beautifully on Open Letter, never trying to copy Monk's splayed-finger style, but rather staying true to his own understated phrasing. And the band is fantastic, especially tenor and soprano saxophonist Doug Duget, who gets a sound similar to longtime Monk associate Charlie Rouse. Marsalis' youngest son, Jason, does a tremendous job on drums, as he explores the connection between Monk and funk, the backbone of much of New Orleans' music, particulary evident on the track "Teo." Tune into WLRN Friday between 1 and 2 p.m. to hear my interview with Ellis Marsalis, and by all means, go see him perform (a solo piano show!) Thursday, Aug. 14 at the Coral Gables Congregational Church.
• Talking to Wilson was a great treat. The bandleader, who turns 90 in September and was feted at a grand celebration at the Hollywood Bowl in late July, reminisced about his school years at Manassa High in Memphis and at Cass Tech High in Detroit in the 1930s. (Keep in mind, I was interviewing him for a column that will appear in the education issue of Jazziz, which will hit newsstands sometime in October.) Wilson skipped out on his senior year at Cass — a renowned music school that has turned out jazz giants such as Alice Coltrane and Ron Carter, not to mention South Florida's own Kenny Millions — to go on the road with Jimmie Lunceford's band in 1939, stepping into the huge shoes of trumpeter-arranger Sy Oliver, and he just kept going. A fixture on the L.A. jazz scene since the 1940s, Wilson more or less set the template for the contemporary big band sound, especially with his Pacific recordings of the 60s. And he's still setting the bar with suberb late-career recordings such as In My Time, New York, New Sound and Theme for Monterey. I'll include some excerpts from our conversation in a future post.
• I was a bit nervous about interviewing Randy Newman. Would he be as sharp-edged and misanthropic as his songs would lead you to believe? Turns out the cat could not have been nicer, conversing amiably and at length from his room at New York's Ritz-Carlton, where he was staying in advance of tonight's appearance on Letterman. We talked about his terrific new album, Harps and Angels — with its atypical "A Few Words in Defense of Our Country" specifically calling out the Bush administration and the Supreme Court — politics, the state of satire (we both agreed that the recent New Yorker cover kind of missed its mark tonewise), his roots in L.A. and New Orleans and, of course, some of his jazz heroes, as this piece, too, will appear in an upcoming issue of Jazziz (likely November's). His first recording of new material in nine years, Harps and Angels features Newman doing what he does best: revealing truths about human nature through incisive character songs. I'll post some choice portions of that interview, as well.
• Besides the ones that lived under his roof — you know, Wynton, Branford, Delfeayo and Jason — pianist Ellis Marsalis has mentored some of the leading jazz figures to emerge from the Crescent City. Harry Connick Jr., Terence Blanchard, Donald Harrison, Nicholas Payton and Irvin Mayfield all passed under his tutleage at the New Orleans Center of Creative Arts. The longtime educator and New Orleans jazz scene favorite recently released Open Letter to Thelonious, a superb tribute recording to Monk, on which he and his quartet explore the music of one of the genre's most distinctive composers. When I asked him for his initial reactions to Monk on first hearing his music, Marsalis gruffly replied: "I didn't like it." In fact, he related, it took him years to come to grips with Monk, but he does so beautifully on Open Letter, never trying to copy Monk's splayed-finger style, but rather staying true to his own understated phrasing. And the band is fantastic, especially tenor and soprano saxophonist Doug Duget, who gets a sound similar to longtime Monk associate Charlie Rouse. Marsalis' youngest son, Jason, does a tremendous job on drums, as he explores the connection between Monk and funk, the backbone of much of New Orleans' music, particulary evident on the track "Teo." Tune into WLRN Friday between 1 and 2 p.m. to hear my interview with Ellis Marsalis, and by all means, go see him perform (a solo piano show!) Thursday, Aug. 14 at the Coral Gables Congregational Church.
Friday, August 1, 2008
What's in a noir?
Like pianist Larry Vuckovich, I'm a huge fan of film noir. So I eagerly dove into his trio's latest recording, High Wall: Real Life Film Noir (Tetrachord Music), anticipating all the dark and portentous music I've come to expect from the cinematic genre. But instead of conjuring desperate people in dire straits and what they might be capable of when backed into a corner, Vuckovich's music bursts with positivity and irrepressibly sunny grooves. Great piano jazz? To be sure. Noirish? Not really.
However, the shadowy textures of those great old movies abound in bassist Ben Wolfe's excellent debut recording as a leader, No Strangers Here (MaxJazz). With a supporting crew including saxophonist Marcus Strickland, pianist Luis Perdomo and drummer Greg Hutchinson, as well as a superb string quartet, musician-composer Wolfe alternates between gritty bop and emotionally complex chamber pieces, all of which would sound right at home in a noir flick.
Dig the anxious setup on the opening "Minnick Rule," with Wolfe's quick-stepping bass lines evoking the jacked-up heartbeat and hurried stride of our hero as he hides in doorways, hoping not to be noticed on a busy city street. Perdomo's angular chords, Strickland's troubled tenor, guest trumpeter Terrell Stafford's heated blasts and Hutchinson's inexorable, pulse-quickening sticking all contribute to the frenzied feel. The lovely title track cools the fever as the strings come into the picture, putting silken sheets under Strickland's becalmed blowing.
With drama-laden pieces such as "Blue Envy" and "Rosy and Zero," the former featuring the subdued bass clarinet of Victor Goines, the latter truly showcasing the wonderful strings (Jesse Mills and Cyrus Beroukhim on violins, Kenji Bunch on cello and Wolfram Koessel on cello), No Strangers Here plays like a ready-made noir soundtrack, from its pyschologically involving mood pieces to the song titles themselves. As both a composer and musician, Wolfe is exceptional, and guests such as Branford Marsalis and Jeff "Tain" Watts attest to the high regard in which he's held.
A Yugoslavian immigrant who's lived in San Francisco since his teen years, Vuckovich was inspired by the films he loved as a kid. In fact, High Wall, the title track to his muscular new recording, was taken from Bronslaw Kaper's soundtrack to the 1947 movie of the same name about a man who may or may not have killed his wife (a brain injury provides convenient blackouts), and is the most noirlike piece here. Yet Vuckovich — or at least his music — doesn't revel in the cynical view of human nature that generally provides the dark heart of noir storytelling.
Make no mistake, this is top-flight stuff — and it does conjure the era when noir was most popular, if not the form itself — featuring rotating sidemen in different trio and quartet configurations. Hector Lugo's bongos and congas add Cubano bop flavor to the proceedings, reminiscent of Chano Pozo's work with Dizzy Gillespie — dig the smoking rendition of Diz's "Ow!" — and undergird a soul-jazz workout on Joe Sample's boogaloo classic "Put It Where You Want It." A mix of Latin rhythms with Eastern European roots propels an intriguing hybrid titled "Gyspy Roma Mambo (Dark Eyes)," and a read of Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez" starts off stately and then jumps into a 6/8 descarga.
On a quieter note, "View From Telegraph Hill," a heartfelt love letter to Vuckovich's adopted hometown that conjures the San Francisco skyline at twilight as the lights blink on, and a gorgeous solo meditation on "A Handful of Stars," are simply gorgeous.
My suggestion: Cue up either Wolfe's No Strangers Here or Vuckovich's High Wall for a straight-ahead jazz fix, and get Netflix to send you a copy of Double Indemnity or Touch of Evil to get your noir kicks.
However, the shadowy textures of those great old movies abound in bassist Ben Wolfe's excellent debut recording as a leader, No Strangers Here (MaxJazz). With a supporting crew including saxophonist Marcus Strickland, pianist Luis Perdomo and drummer Greg Hutchinson, as well as a superb string quartet, musician-composer Wolfe alternates between gritty bop and emotionally complex chamber pieces, all of which would sound right at home in a noir flick.
Dig the anxious setup on the opening "Minnick Rule," with Wolfe's quick-stepping bass lines evoking the jacked-up heartbeat and hurried stride of our hero as he hides in doorways, hoping not to be noticed on a busy city street. Perdomo's angular chords, Strickland's troubled tenor, guest trumpeter Terrell Stafford's heated blasts and Hutchinson's inexorable, pulse-quickening sticking all contribute to the frenzied feel. The lovely title track cools the fever as the strings come into the picture, putting silken sheets under Strickland's becalmed blowing.
With drama-laden pieces such as "Blue Envy" and "Rosy and Zero," the former featuring the subdued bass clarinet of Victor Goines, the latter truly showcasing the wonderful strings (Jesse Mills and Cyrus Beroukhim on violins, Kenji Bunch on cello and Wolfram Koessel on cello), No Strangers Here plays like a ready-made noir soundtrack, from its pyschologically involving mood pieces to the song titles themselves. As both a composer and musician, Wolfe is exceptional, and guests such as Branford Marsalis and Jeff "Tain" Watts attest to the high regard in which he's held.
A Yugoslavian immigrant who's lived in San Francisco since his teen years, Vuckovich was inspired by the films he loved as a kid. In fact, High Wall, the title track to his muscular new recording, was taken from Bronslaw Kaper's soundtrack to the 1947 movie of the same name about a man who may or may not have killed his wife (a brain injury provides convenient blackouts), and is the most noirlike piece here. Yet Vuckovich — or at least his music — doesn't revel in the cynical view of human nature that generally provides the dark heart of noir storytelling.
Make no mistake, this is top-flight stuff — and it does conjure the era when noir was most popular, if not the form itself — featuring rotating sidemen in different trio and quartet configurations. Hector Lugo's bongos and congas add Cubano bop flavor to the proceedings, reminiscent of Chano Pozo's work with Dizzy Gillespie — dig the smoking rendition of Diz's "Ow!" — and undergird a soul-jazz workout on Joe Sample's boogaloo classic "Put It Where You Want It." A mix of Latin rhythms with Eastern European roots propels an intriguing hybrid titled "Gyspy Roma Mambo (Dark Eyes)," and a read of Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez" starts off stately and then jumps into a 6/8 descarga.
On a quieter note, "View From Telegraph Hill," a heartfelt love letter to Vuckovich's adopted hometown that conjures the San Francisco skyline at twilight as the lights blink on, and a gorgeous solo meditation on "A Handful of Stars," are simply gorgeous.
My suggestion: Cue up either Wolfe's No Strangers Here or Vuckovich's High Wall for a straight-ahead jazz fix, and get Netflix to send you a copy of Double Indemnity or Touch of Evil to get your noir kicks.
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